


the night that ends at last

by sakura_freefall



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background E/R, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Discussions of Morals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Enjolras-centric, Eponine Is Bad At Emotions, Eventual Happy Ending, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Jehan is a Good Friend, Like they're all dead when this takes place, Platonic Relationships, Post-Barricade, Rated T for descriptions of death and violence, Some Fluff, enjoltaire - Freeform, mentions of past character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28761252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakura_freefall/pseuds/sakura_freefall
Summary: "Enjolras, are you alright? You look very tired." He says this softly, with a hint of warm concern that Enjolras knows he doesn't deserve."I'm fine, Jehan. As fine as any of us could be, right now." He laughs, a dry, bitter snort, more contempt than humour. Maybe Grantaire did rub off on him a little. Maybe death has turned him cynical."You don't look fine. You wouldn't talk to us when you got here, you just ran off on your own." It's almost accusing, the way he says it. "Combeferre is very worried. We all are. Grantaire, too. This isn't like you."Enjolras looks pointedly away, burying his head in his hands."Enjolras? Can you please talk to me?" Jehan's voice is imploring, soft and fragile but with an undercurrent of steel. It takes everything Enjolras has to not break down into tears right then and there.
Relationships: Enjolras & Jean Prouvaire, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Les Amis de l'ABC Friendship, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You ever get the idea for a really niche fic from a really niche trope and against your better judgement you end up writing it?
> 
> Yeah, this is what this is :)
> 
> Someone on tumblr had the idea that Enjolras and Jehan would have a really close friendship and my hand slipped and this happened. Sorry about the angsty beginning.
> 
> (Also there's background E/R because I am incapable of not slipping references to E/R in my fanfics :P)
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment/kudos if you enjoyed!!

Enjolras dangles his feet over the edge of the roof, feeling the setting sun warm against his face. It's three stories to the ground, at least, but he's not afraid of falling, not here. He's not sure if he _can_ fall even if he wanted to.

People mill around in the streets below him, some of whom he knows, many of whom he does not. From the height, they're simply smears of color and shape, and though he can recognize them easily enough, he pays them only passing attention. There will be time for company, right now he wants solitude. It's quiet up here, leaving him alone to his thoughts, for better or for worse.

The sunset clouds match the color of his red vest, which hangs unbuttoned over his bloodstained shirt. He could button it, he supposes, but instead he shifts his weight slightly, pulling his legs up onto the roof.

There are many things Enjolras doesn't understand, one of which being this place that seems to exist outside of time and space, a warm, achingly familiar place that feels almost like a home. Mind wandering, his thoughts turn to Grantaire, whom Enjolras doesn't understand either. Simultaneously an irritant and a confidant, the careless artist who took great care not to believe in anything at all. The man who woke up and held his hand when everything seemed lost. They're... something, but Enjolras can't quite put a label on it, not lovers, not quite, that word tangled up in a million threads that sting to untease. He feels something for him, sure, something he didn't quite understand until that one fateful moment, and something in Grantaire's eyes told him that he feels similarly.

He will talk to Grantaire later, he's sure. Once he's ready, once they're both ready to begin furrowing out what happened early that morning, once it doesn't sit in him red and raw like the soreness of an open wound. Once he's calmed the doubts nagging at the back of his own skull like fishhooks catching on kelp.

He shouldn't be here.

The thought grips him and tugs, and if he's not careful, he knows in the logical part of his mind that it will drag him somewhere he won't be able to think his way out of. Those are the thoughts that led people to the bottom of a bottle, to the apathetic walls of the factories, not by circumstance but by sheer despair and hopelessness.

Still. He shouldn't be here. He knows this so certainly that he wonders if it isn't true after all. He is a murderer- he killed two men, both by necessity but killed them nonetheless, and he was prepared to kill more if need be. Even though they would've undoubtedly killed him too, had their positions been reversed. How their comrades did.

Could he, if he'd been as smart as Combeferre or as thoughtful as Courfeyrac, thought of a way to neutralize them without causing death? He could've tied them up- why hadn't he tied them up, they had rope, they had poles, but he killed without thinking. His first instinct was violence. He wonders in the darker parts of his mind, if they had been successful, would he end up a second Robespierre, thoughtless in his pursuits and drunk on justice and vengeance, hated, on a path that led down and down and down? Would he become the very thing he swore to fight against? He's not sure, and in a small, twisted way, he's glad he'll never have to find out.

What's more, even if the soldiers he killed could be justified in war, he'd also killed his friends. His mistake, his bad luck, his passion and fury that eclipsed his good sense had caused their deaths as surely as if he'd have shot them himself. He'd led them all straight into a death trap, and for that, even if they forgive him, he will never forgive himself. The red marks that draw his eye whenever he sees them are a juror's transcript of his guilt, a blood debt that he couldn't hope to repay.

Perhaps he's avoided them, perhaps that's selfish of him, perhaps he should go talk to them, Courfeyrac and Combeferre at the very least, but he's not ready yet. It makes him ache, but at least he's used to being lonely. Was lonely for fifteen long years before he met them, a rich boy who hated being rich, an embarrassment, a disgrace, with his dangerous ideals and blunt statements. He can be lonely for a little while now, it's only fair.

He doesn't cry. He's gotten good at holding back the tears when he needs to, mental dams stopping them from flooding out. He cried when Lamarque died, cried at the barricade, cried every time someone died, cried every time he had to kill someone, and maybe he simply has no tears left.

"Enjolras?"

Surprised by the sudden address, Enjolras peers over the building to the street below. His breath catches in his throat when he recognizes Jean Prouvaire, his coppery hair long and loose. If Enjolras tilts his head just so, the light hits him in a way that all but obscures the bright red blood matted on one side of it.

"Jehan?" he tries to call out, but it sounds more like a gasping sob. Jehan looks up at him before striding over to the ladder built against the sheer side of the building.

"I'm coming up. Don't go anywhere." Before Enjolras can protest, he scrambles, monkeylike, up the ladder, pulling himself up onto the roof with a lithe bounce. Jehan is petit and built slimly, but he is not weak. Far from it, in more ways than one. Enjolras moves back instinctively, eyes latching onto the dark wound right behind Prouvaire's ear, staining his hair a deeper scarlet. Jehan doesn't try to approach any closer, and Enjolras is silently grateful, though he doesn't know exactly why. He's not scared of Jehan, exactly, more scared of the spilled blood that he represents, the first to die of his friends- the girl, Eponine, had died earlier but he'd barely known her- she was a peripheral acquaintance at best. Jehan who their enemies beat and taunted and captured and then finally killed, all while they watched helplessly, knowing that a rescue mission would be suicide. He stares at Enjolras with wide, hazel-green eyes, seeming to look past his face and straight into his core.

"Enjolras, are you alright? You look very tired." He says this softly, with a hint of warm concern that Enjolras knows he doesn't deserve.

"I'm fine, Jehan. As fine as any of us could be, right now." He laughs, a dry, bitter snort, more contempt than humour. Maybe Grantaire did rub off on him a little. Maybe death has turned him cynical.

"You don't look fine. You wouldn't talk to us when you got here, you just ran off on your own." It's almost accusing, the way he says it. "Combeferre is very worried. We all are. Grantaire, too. This isn't like you."

Enjolras looks pointedly away, burying his head in his hands.

"Enjolras? Can you please talk to me?" Jehan's voice is imploring, soft and fragile but with an undercurrent of steel. It takes everything Enjolras has to not break down into tears right then and there.

"Why am I here?" he chokes out, breathing heavily.

"Why, for the same reason we all are, of course!" Jehan answers. "Do you not remember?"

"No, I remember," he sighs. "I mean, why am _I_ here? I shouldn't- I shouldn't be here."

"Why not?" murmurs Jehan indulgently.

"Because- because I'm a murderer, Jehan!" Enjolras shouts, inwardly kicking himself for the way Jehan flinches at the noise. "I killed people! The artillery sergeant, Le Cabuc..."

Jehan leans forward. "Enjolras, stop. Stop talking that way. Most all of us have killed, it was a battle for heaven's sake! You deserve to be here just as much as we do, wherever here is!"

Enjolras shakes his head. "No, you don't understand. I- I killed you!"

Jehan quirks his brow, concern passing across his face. "No, you didn't. I'm fairly certain it was the soldiers who did that. Unless you've been a double agent this entire time, you definitely didn't kill me." He smiles a bit at the last part, his lightheartedness cutting into Enjolras like a knife.

"But I was the reason you were all here in the first place! It was my idea! If it wasn't for me, then you'd all still be alive, going to university and flirting with pretty girls and boys and- it's all my fault!"

"Enjolras, no," Jehan sighs, brushing a hand lightly over his shoulder, and Enjolras doesn't back away from the touch, secretly thankful for it. "None of us were there just because you were, except maybe Grantaire, and we all know where his motives lie. We were there for the same reason you were, because we were fighting for a better future. Nothing that happened was your fault. Nothing."

In a swift, deft motion, Jehan gently unwinds the torn red flag tied loosely around Enjolras's waist, unfolding it and draping it over him like a blanket. It's warm and soft and familiar, making him relax in spite of himself. He feels Jehan's warmth pressed against his side, feels a gentle arm around his shoulder. Enjolras didn't know how much he craved a comforting companion until one found him. Jehan is intrepid and gentle and compassionate and everything humanity should be, everything Enjolras knows he will never be. He tries not to think about the bullet that killed him, tries not to wonder how anyone could possibly harm someone so sweet, and something about Jehan's mere presence chases the thoughts away from his mind, leaving clean air and sunlight in its place. "I'm so sorry, Jehan."

"Everything's okay, Enjolras. I forgive you. We forgive you." Jehan rubs Enjolras's shoulder in slow circles, soothing.

"W- were you afraid?" he asks in a small voice, trying to keep it from trembling.

Jehan responds in a soft tone, comforting like warm tea. "I was. As we all were. But I'm not afraid now, and I never had any reason to be, because I'm here with all of my friends. And you are one of them. You aren't just our leader. You're our friend."

"I'm sorry," he repeats, unsure of what else to say. "I'm sorry they hurt you. I'm sorry we couldn't save you. I'm sorry you were scared and alone. Nobody- nobody should have to be alone."

The look Jehan gives him seems a thousand years old, full of clouds and stars and entire universes seeming to flicker in it. "But I'm not alone. I was never alone because I knew all of you were right _here._ " He taps his chest. "And I wasn't alone here either, because Eponine was here, you'd like her, Enjolras, she's fiery like you, and then Bahorel was here, and Feuilly, and all our friends. And none of us will ever be alone again. We're all staying right here. With me and with you."

"Jehan..." he whispers, and finally the tears have come, and he sobs into Prouvaire's chest, holding him close so that nothing, nothing, would ever ever take him away again. "Jehan, I missed you so much. I missed all of you so, so much."

"It's okay," Jehan breathes, like he's comforting a crying child. "We missed you too. But now we're all together, and don't you worry about your Patria because there will be more revolutions, I'm sure of it, and someday there will be a republic again. And I'm sure we'll find some way to assist in that matter, I know we will. This doesn't have to stop us. As long as we're together, we can do anything."

Enjolras feels a weight lift off his shoulders, one he wasn't aware of until it's gone. "You don't say they're planning another uprising?"

"Oh, no," Jehan laughs. "Not yet. It'll take time, to build dissent again. So you don't have to pull out your maps and battle plans just yet. You deserve time to rest. To be happy. You've done enough."

"But when they do rise again? Will we try to help them, if we can?"

"Of course," Jehan assures him. "Our ideals don't die with us. Perhaps we can visit as ghosts, scare the old king into surrendering all on his own!"

"Oh, Jehan," Enjolras smiles, and a laugh escapes him, a real laugh this time. "That would surely be something."

Jehan takes his hand in his own. "Better now?"

"Better now," he confirms.

"Well then," Jehan chirps, looking out over the horizon, "I think our friends are waiting to see you. Grantaire especially. I believe he wants to get a drink with you," Jehan elaborates, and Enjolras blushes in spite of himself. "You _held hands,_ Enjolras." Jehan smirks, and for once Enjolras can't find it in him to be annoyed with the teasing.

"That- that doesn't mean anything!"

"Enjolras, he woke up because he'd rather die than have to live without you. He's in love with you, you imbecile." Jehan shrugs, and Enjolras's eyes aren't on the bullet wound in his head this time, he's looking at the sweet smile on Jehan's face, the smile that reaches all the way to his green eyes.

"Maybe he is," Enjolras muses. "Maybe I'm- maybe I feel that way towards him as well." He's not playing coy the way some would, he's sincerely trying to think through his emotions, opening parts of himself he's never had the time or chance to open before. This is something that he'll discuss with Grantaire later, in private, and whatever they decide on, he's sure they'll be okay.

"Of course, we must attend Marius's wedding," Jehan continues. So Marius had lived. Enjolras never was close with him, the other boy's political opinions and love for Bonaparte rubbed him the wrong way, but he is a genuinely good person, and Enjolras is glad he will have a chance at a happy life. "Courfeyrac will not shut up about it, about how sweet the couple is, what a nice man it was who saved him, about whether he can find some way to contact Marius."

"That's Courfeyrac," Enjolras replies, feeling fondness spread through his chest. Suddenly, he can't wait to see them, to hear their laughs and their voices, just revel in the pleasure of being with people who he'd do anything for and who'd do anything for him.

Jehan springs up and steps towards the ladder. "Well then, what are we waiting for?" 

"Okay, okay, I'm coming," laughs Enjolras, feeling lighter than he has in a long, long time, the guilt and regret and dregs of despair dissolving as the sun dips behind the horizon, casting the city awash in golden light. He can see figures below him, his friends, marked with the lingering stains of death, but still here, and nothing will ever hurt them or take them away again.

And for the first time in what could very well be forever, Enjolras feels like he's free.


	2. no fear, no regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I said this was a oneshot lol I lied 
> 
> take this part two, eponine-centric edition because as much as I love e/R somebody else needs attention for once and for fuck's sake let eponine have some acceptance
> 
> no promises for anything more but I need to make my writers block fuck off before I do the next installment of 'cause the hardest part of this was leaving you.

Eponine is used to crowds, but only crowds full of strangers, going about their daily lives on crowded streets. Is eleven people, including herself, truly a crowd? It seems like it, however this crowd is different because ten of them know each other well and almost none of them know Eponine at all.

Her brother, of course, knows her, but he is not one to linger for conversation when there are pastries to be eaten and buildings to be scaled without fear of falling. She does not know if one could in fact fall off of the rooftops here, and she has no interest in finding out.

She watches them. She knows that they will be together for an indefinitely long amount of time- quite probably forever- and though she does not doubt that they would prefer not to associate with a teenage street thief, she is a generally observant person in spite of herself.

She knows the name of the redhead, Jean Prouvaire, though he calls himself Jehan. He was the second, so they spent several minutes only in the company of each other. She knows that he is a poet, his favourite season is spring, he loves the colour purple, and that he died after being captured- although the wound in his head would tell her that much on its own. As for him, he knows her name and that she hates her family. She refuses to give anyone else more of herself than is strictly necessary.

There's a dark-skinned man with glasses and three wounds in his chest, who talks quietly to another man with freckles and a fashionable coat. She knows that the well-dressed man is named Courfeyrac because Marius spoke of him often.

The others she has even less idea of. There is a witty, cheerful man with a scarlet cravat, a young man in a worker's cap, a short someone with glasses far too big for his face, a bald man, a scraggly man with dark curls and calloused hands, and a man with blonde hair, a red vest, and eight bullet wounds who upon arriving took off across the street without saying a word. A few minutes later, the Prouvaire boy had followed him, probably to coax him to return.

Where does that leave Eponine? Marius is not here, which means that he is alive. Alive and probably furious at her for not giving him the letter sooner. There is nothing she can do about that. So she sits against the wall of a building and watches the sun slowly set over the beautiful city, expecting any moment for some higher being to come along and rectify their mistake and realize that these people are not her friends and do not care for her.

Eponine's life was one full of rejections. Why should that change now?

After a while, the others congregate below another building, while Prouvaire leads the strange blonde boy down a ladder and onto the ground. Several fling themselves at him immediately; she guesses that he must be a close friend of theirs. She watches their happy reunion feeling somewhat detached, she has for a long time gone without such friendships, other than with Marius, and she does not understand quite how they are supposed to work.

(There was a girl when she was young, skinny with pale hair and eyes, what was her name? Colette perhaps? Rosette? She does not know if they were truly friends, however, for they fought more often than not, usually over petty things like dolls and dresses.)

"Eponine?"

Gavroche has sauntered up to her, smirking. 

"What do you need?"

"Well," he says, with a toss of his hair, "the Amis-" he says the word with such weight that it could not possibly simply mean the friends- "are going to find a place to spend the night. And seeing as my elephant is nowhere to be found, and as such I am once again out of lodgings, I am coming with them. You should too."

"Oh, Gavroche," Eponine sighs. "You know my place is not with them. They will not be expecting a dirty street girl, you know."

"Hey! Do not insult the pavements of Paris! The people of the streets are the finest and best, as you should very well know. I should hate to be trapped in a stuffy bourgeois house all day and night with nothing but textbooks and trimmings for company!" Eponine privately disagrees. She would have very much liked to have some shelter from the cold and wind, even at the expense of her night wanderings.

"That is very well, but they know you. They barely know of me."

"They are good people, 'Ponine, you know that? Nothing like old Thenardier and his gang of thieves. I should think they'd find you perfectly acceptable company."

"Alright then," shrugs Eponine, defeated. She doesn't really have any better option, unless she wants to be pestered by Gavroche all hours of the night. She ignores the stains on the back of his too-big coat as he skips triumphantly down the cobblestones, humming a jaunty tune.

The place in which the so-called Amis are spending the night turns out to be a street piled with furniture. She wonders absently why they would recreate the very structure that lead to their deaths, but perhaps they have reasons of their own. Eponine knows that better than anybody else. And since there are no soldiers or spies firing upon them, she supposes it's as good a place as any. Eponine has always been good at pushing her feelings to the back of her mind.

Prouvaire waves at her, propped up between a footstool and a wagon-wheel. He is too kind, she thinks, and perhaps that is what ended up getting him killed. He is too kind, and she is too attached. And now that Marius is not here, there is nowhere for that attachment to go. She feels like a puppet whose strings have just been cut, and she does not know how to walk under her own weight.

"Who are you?" asks the blonde man who had been sitting on the building earlier. She gathers that he must be some sort of leader amongst them, and there is a pained and cautious look in his eyes. She doesn't know how he managed to get himself shot eight times, and likely she does not want to know.

"This?" Gavroche chirps, saving her from having to answer. "Oh, this is Eponine. My sister. She was the one who saved Marius Pontmercy. I do hope you won't be unwelcoming."

"Unwelcoming?" Courfeyrac asks, incredulous. "Any friend of Marius is a friend of mine as well! Come join us!" Eponine blanches, not used to someone doing more than tolerating her presence. Nonetheless, she carefully climbs over the barricade and settles herself at the edge of the group. Gavroche bounds over a moment later, straight into the surprised arms of a man in a green jacket, mumbling a muffled greeting.

"I hope I am not too much of a bother, here," she sputters. "I would not want to intrude-"

"You are not intruding." The blonde man speaks again, and Eponine decides that he has the sort of voice that people tend to listen to. "All are welcome here, so long as they are not oppressors or tyrants. We failed to achieve equality in life, so it- it would only be sensible that we e-embrace it in death," he says, voice cracking. The bespectacled man with the three wounds puts a steadying hand on his shoulder, murmuring something into his ear, and he relaxes a little, fidgeting absently with a strip of red fabric.

"I apologize for Enjolras," the man in the green coat says, gently extricating himself from Gavroche and setting the young boy on the ground. He smirks, as if he knows some sort of highly amusing secret. "He is an idiot who insists upon blaming himself for-"

"Shut up," Enjolras orders, not unkindly. "I see I cannot escape your mockery even here." He slides down from his perch and sits beside the other man, threading his hand through his own. The man shivers slightly, as if expecting a rebuke. "Grantaire, easy," Enjolras consoles. "I am not going to hurt you."

"Why is there no wine?" Grantaire asks, looking out at everyone. "I should wish for a drink, with the chance of liver failure no longer a factor."

"As if you ever cared about your liver," jabs another man.

"Perhaps there is wine in the barrel," someone else points out. "After all, that is where wine would generally be kept."

"You're right," Grantaire confirms, and he gently pulls away from Enjolras before making his way to a large barrel, reaching inside for something. "Found some," he says cheerfully, waving a bottle above his head before returning to his spot at the leader's side.

"Hey!" someone shouts as Gavroche makes a pass for the bottle. "Not for you!"

"Can't do nothing," Gavroche huffs, sprawling on the ground. Eponine decides that a drunk Gavroche would be a terrifying thing, one she would not wish on anyone. Well, perhaps on Thenardier, the old bastard.

They pass around the wine bottle. Eponine declines- she'd never had much a taste for the stuff, and looks up at the twilight stars, thinking.

She's snapped out of her reverie by the tall man coughing. "Well, everyone," he booms. "We have certainly not failed, but I cannot say that we succeeded."

"Perhaps we have done both," says the man in the glasses. "Perhaps such things are circular, as there is no true end nor beginning."

"I'm just happy we're all here," Prouvaire admits. "I was terribly worried about being alone, but there was no need all along."

"But were you when you first arrived? To wherever this is?" asks the man with the cap nervously, putting a hand on his back.

"No, Eponine was already there."

"I'm afraid I did not make the best sort of company," she murmurs, more to herself than to the others, but Prouvaire hears it anyways.

"You made fine company, Citizeness," he retorts. "In fact, I realize we may have been rather impolite, for I do not believe we have told her our names."

"It's fine, no trouble," Eponine protests, but already Prouvaire is pointing towards the others. "Bahorel,"- the tall man with the red cravat- "Feuilly"- the one in the workers' cap with ginger hair- "Combeferre,"- the man with the spectacles- "Enjolras and Grantaire,"- the pair holding hands, whose names she admittedly knew already- "Courfeyrac,"- Marius's friend- "Joly,"- the short boy with large glasses- "Bossuet,"- the bald one- "and you should of course know Gavroche already," he says, laughing a bit.

Eponine is not sure quite if they are accepting her- she has never been accepted before- but perhaps death changes these sorts of things. "Thank you," she says quietly, gratefully. "I've- I've never truly had any sort- any sort of-" she bites her lip, realizing that she is becoming emotional. These people still might decide to abandon her, and she will be alone forever. 

"Family?" asks Feuilly, raising his eyebrows. "Nor did I. That's why I found myself a family among these people," he explains. "Maybe you can do the same."

"It was brave of you to save Marius," Courfeyrac chimes in. "He owes his life to you."

 _It wasn't brave,_ speaks the doubt that lingers in the back of her mind. _It was cowardly; you were sure he'd die later and didn't want to see it._

"It- no-"

"Eponine, it's alright," Combeferre says coolly. "We think no less of you here, not because you are a woman, or because you are young, or poor, or because you came here for reasons other than our cause at hand."

Eponine has always been thought less of. She is not sure who she truly is when not a shadow.

 _You don't deserve a family._ The doubts in Eponine's mind make one more effort to drag her away, but she ignores it. People are given things they don't deserve all the time, she knows that much. For once she is the one being given something, even if she's not sure what exactly that might be. Instead she leans in closer to the people who have accepted her presence, who in this strange afterlife might someday even become her friends. 


End file.
